


And The Other

by gremlinny



Series: Two Birds [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, The LEGO Batman Movie (2017)
Genre: Ableism, Bruce Wayne Is Disabled, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon Disabled Character, Disabled Character, Gen, dick grayson is a sweet boy, disabled Bruce Wayne, father/son dynamics, stressful environments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23441527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gremlinny/pseuds/gremlinny
Summary: “A lot has changed since the last time everyone saw me. People will have a lot of questions about a lot of things.”__________Bruce is invited to a party. He takes his son, Dick, with him.A follow-up to my previous fic, “On A Wire”
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Two Birds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686352
Comments: 2
Kudos: 71





	And The Other

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of an AU where I took the LEGO Batman Movie version of Dick, turned him into A Real Boy, and now he’s the adopted son of the Dark Knight Trilogy version of Bruce Wayne.
> 
> As a bit of an explanation; Rachel is alive in this AU, and Harvey is too. The fire that disfigured Harvey also injured Rachel, but she’s fine now and she’s like a fun aunt to Dick.
> 
> This is set after the second movie, obviously. Dick’s been living with Bruce for about a month now. Featuring Christian Bale’s version of Bruce, and Jacob Tremblay as a faceclaim for Dick.

“You look worried.”

Bruce snaps out of his thoughts at the sound of Dick’s voice, and he turns his head to look at his son. 

Dick looks right at home in the backseat of the car, messing idly with the sleeves of his suit jacket. The seatbelt crumples his bowtie up just a bit, and the black converse on his feet are a nice compromise between his usual worn-out green tennis shoes and the dress shoes Bruce had urged him to wear. 

“I’m…a little worried, yeah.”

The car windows are spotted with raindrops as Alfred drives them around the streets of Gotham, and Bruce can’t help but smile when he sees the way Dick’s large coke-bottle glasses shine with the reflection of the streetlights outside. “I guess I’m just nervous about what everyone will think. This is the first time I’ve shown up at a public event in about two months, and… a lot has changed since the last time everyone saw me. People will have a lot of questions about a lot of things.”

“Like me,” Dick says, “and Aunt Rachel. And your leg.”

Bruce nods, and his mouth forms into a thin line as he grips his cane a bit tighter. It’s a different one than he uses at home— this is sleek, polished wood painted black with ugly little bronze embellishments on it. It’s just a bit too short for him to use comfortably, obviously built more for aesthetic than function. Definitely an antique of some kind, maybe it belonged to a grandfather or a great-grandfather or someone higher up in the family tree. The awkward hook-style handle was almost enough for him to not even take it at all, and he was only swayed with the argument that he wouldn’t be able to stand or walk without it. 

Dick’s small hand lays over Bruce’s fingers, tracing the hideous gilded designs on the cane. “I’m sorry you couldn’t bring yours. You’ve been staring at this one like you want to throw it out the window.”

Alfred laughs from the front seat. “He already tried that at home. Unfortunately, the dress code for this event applies to mobility aids as well.”

“As soon as we get back home I’m using this thing as kindling in the fireplace,” Bruce mutters. “I haven’t even used it yet and I can already feel my hand cramping up.”

Dick leans closer to Bruce, as far as the seatbelt will let him, messing up his bowtie even further. “I’ll help you if you want me to,” he offers, and Bruce reaches over to tussle his auburn hair. 

After a few more turns, the car pulls to a stop. The rain’s died down by now, and the paparazzi has already gathered outside the hotel that the party’s being hosted at.

 _They’re like a mob,_ Bruce thinks, staring out the tinted glass as they ready their cameras. 

The door opens with little effort, but he’s got a death grip on the handle as he puts his feet onto the pavement and tries to shift his weight onto his good leg and the cane. 

“Look at that,” someone in the crowd laughs, “poor bastard can’t even get outta their car.”

There’s half a second of glorious silence, half a second where nobody knows it’s him, and then—

“Holy _shit_ , that’s _Bruce Wayne!”_

The crowd surges forward, cameras going off like grenades in their hands, just as loud and twice as bright. It takes a moment before Bruce can see past all the flashing lights, and by then he’s already managed the few steps off the street and onto the curb, with the small figure of his son following behind like a shadow, holding his hand tightly. 

Dick moves a bit further behind Bruce’s good leg in an attempt to hide from the cameras, still maintaining his grasp on Bruce’s hand as they push through the crowd.

It’s hard enough for Bruce to walk with a shitty cane, and it’s even harder when there’s so many people stepping around him. Every time someone gets too close, he tries to move a little bit faster— and if someone gets their shins hit, it’s just a little bonus.

He’d stepped out of the car with an expert poker face, the result of so many years of being photographed and interviewed. By the time they reach the stairs that lead into the entrance, his expression has shifted into a tight grimace. 

_Just make it up the stairs_ , he tells himself, _just make it up the stairs and then find the closest seat and then don’t get up unless you absolutely have to._

The cameras flash with more urgency as he starts up toward the door. There’s not many steps, but they’re steep and slick with rain, and Bruce thinks the cane might snap with how heavily he’s leaning on it. Every time he moves his leg, pain shoots into his foot and his hip. 

Just a few weeks ago, he would have bounded up the stairs and flung the doors open like he owned the place. Now it’s an agonizingly slow process, and his struggle is being photographed with the same shock from reporters as if he’d suddenly grown two extra heads. 

“You’re doing good,” comes the voice of his son, slightly behind him. “we’re almost there.” 

The little hand squeezes his fingers reassuringly as Bruce tries to ignore the throbbing in his leg with the last few steps. 

A thousand people rush upwards to open the door, but Dick beats them to it, wrenching the heavy oak panel open with all the strength in his body, and he follows his father through the threshold. 

The door shuts with a sense of finality, and the lights and sounds from outside are cut off immediately.

Bruce has never felt more exhausted from just stepping out of his car.

“That was a lot,” Dick says, quietly, and Bruce laughs. 

“Yeah. Yeah, it was.” There’s sweat beading on his forehead, and he’s already looking for the nearest chair to collapse into.


End file.
